


To Scold a Lack of Political Elegance

by prgs



Series: Tales of the Dragon Age, 4E [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 22:06:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prgs/pseuds/prgs
Summary: For the first time, the Inquisitor's confidence begins to waver following the events at the Grand Ball and the assassination of Empress Celene.So clear now are the eyes of discontent; the opposition beyond that of the immediate evil.





	To Scold a Lack of Political Elegance

Nissa stood in the center of Josephine's office awkwardly, like a child expecting scolding, eyes down, feet impatient, slouched. Her hair was messy and undone; her garb too casual. She massaged the fingers of her marked hand with an unnecessary vigor; not quite expecting, but dearly wishing, to soothe the tense, irritated nerves. Josephine sat on the corner of her desk, busying herself with papers, avoiding the confrontation that ached on her tongue. She had no desire to insult the Inquisitor, truly, but the objections she had _needed_ to be heard and understood. Vivienne looked less coy and more nonchalant. She stood watching Nissa with her arms crossed, patiently waiting for Josephine to begin. _This_ , she knew, was her territory, and so she would wait.

“I suppose that didn't go as planned,” the Inquisitor offered finally, looking up at the Ambassador with tired eyes.

Josephine was quick to respond, inspired by a sort of annoyed anxiousness; she felt comfortable enough with the Inquisitor to let her feelings be known, but not close enough to express them directly, and so she continued to stew in the irritated state of unspoken complaints. “No, to say the _least._ Oh, _che cavalo..._ Perhaps if I had only taught you more... I should have _expected-”_

“No amount of lessons can educate one unwilling to learn. She behaved atrociously,” added Vivienne, noting Josephine's disarray and providing her with a moment to compose herself, hoping to support the woman she so admired.

Nissa looked at them both, more surprised than offended. “It was no easy task. To expect me to ignore and act against my principles in such foreign company is-”

“Required, in your position; something any _civilized_ creature would do. Must you throw a tantrum every time the world fails to bow at your feet?”

Josephine bit her lip at the bold words. “I should have anticipated your discomfort in Orlais, Inquisitor. Despite your lack of experience, I suppose I simply assumed you would have acted with more. . . grace.”

Vivienne clicked her tongue. “Where would such an assumption _come_ from?”

Nissa turned to Josephine, ignoring Vivienne's jab, wishing deeply that she could understand the significance she saw in the court. How, she wondered, could it take precedence over one's morals?

“Grace? Is that what appeasement is now called? How should I smile and tease when I do not feel it? When men call me savage the moment I step by?”

One man had called her vallaslin -the vallaslin she so adored, the markings she was wholly proud of, the permanent connection to her people, to her past, to her mother who had the same, and to the day her Keeper wept of pride- hideous; another had been so bold as to feel the scar on her cheek and squeal.

“Terrifying,” the woman had exclaimed in childish delight. “My, so _affected_! _”_

She approached the perplexity which was the Grand Ball with a confidence and reserved curiosity that, quite quickly, was shaken; she did not expect it, nor had anything in her past prepared her for it. She had considered Josephine's words, of course, but did so while expecting them to be exaggerated and born of necessity. After twenty minutes alone she had found Cassandra and hugged her with an overwhelmed, unthinking stroke of emotion that alarmed them both. There was a cruelty in men's hearts that rose in heat at such events; a branch of passion, perhaps, born of the desire to impress a thousand eager eyes while still satisfying the constant insecurity of the soul.

Vivienne sighed; a sigh more of earnest exhaustion than annoyance. Her face remained unmoved. “All are insulted, my dear. Those who are _grown_ simply ignore it. Hence, perhaps, why you do not. Can you not see that the world is filled with those of a different mind than yourself? Do they not deserve to be proved wrong?”

Nissa turned to her, searching for a meaning in her words that would make sense. 

“It is not my job to enlighten cruel men,” she said finally, her voice small.

“So says the child. Nothing will ever change with such an attitude from one in power.”

Josephine tapped her quill against her cheek with a gentle, anxious urgency. “Lady Vivienne-”

“I promised my aid to the Inquisition, and here I give it to the Inquisitor. You are too kind with her, dear Josephine, and so I must take up the responsibility.” She paused for a moment to examine Nissa, eyes bold. “I _do_ hope it's not a futile mission.”

At this, Varric came through the door to Josephine's office, gingerly taking a step inside, then stopping. He looked to Josephine, requesting further admittance. A polite gesture, one she appreciated.

“I tried knocking. Dwarf hands, I guess?” None replied, and Varric threw a hesitance glance towards Nissa. Obviously -of course- he had just interrupted some delicate conversation. _“_ The Inquisitor looks like a kicked puppy. Shit, are you guys harassing her about not being nice to awful people?”

Vivienne bowed and moved to leave before either could respond. “Manners, noble Tethras, are a wonderful thing,” she said before leaving the room, her white coat whipping behind her with each elegant step.

“I think Seneschal Bran told me the same thing once,” came Varric's murmured response.

The actions of the Inquisitor were not her fault and beyond her words, Vivienne knew, as it was not _her_ who chose this odd, untrained girl, and it was not _her_ who insulted said girl's race and abilities... yet she felt a tenderness and concern for her all the same. She was not blind: the actions of the Inquisitor were not that of some ambitious, idealistic youth, but rather that of a curious pariah of a girl, ignorant in all her ancient wisdom. There was a mild sort of arrogance in her, Vivienne saw, born of that reserved, calm, unwavering perspective she clung to so wilfully.

Josephine watched Vivienne leave with a bit of regret. Her words were not yet spent, but as she left so too did her sudden passion, and Varric's somber smile did not help. Lacking an alternative, Josephine composed herself and briefly put aside her concerns of Halamshiral. She glanced at the Inquisitor, who looked true to Varric's word, before speaking.

“Please come in, Varric. Is there something I can assist you with?”

He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. “Nope, simply looking for the Inquisitor here. Seems I have perfect timing. Care for a drink, Lavellan?”

Nissa turned to give Josephine a somewhat solemn look, and Josephine, unsure if she was asking for permission to leave or simply expressing the remnants of the previous conversation, gave her a slight nod.

“Sure, Varric.”

Nissa offered a quick, civil nod of departure to Josephine and joined Varric's side towards the ramparts. They said nothing as they walked, a thing for which she was grateful; her head was throbbing and she felt as though any further prodding would leave her in tears. She considered the words of Vivienne and Josie with little resentment, but rather a gloom that left her feeling tired and hollow in the null of all her stagnant thoughts. She would not change herself for them, she knew already, yet felt their cold opinions and disappointment with a sadness all the same.

The pair eventually stopped above the tavern where Nissa had first met Hawke. Varric seemed to have made the spot his own; it was fitted with two chairs and a table sporting a bottle of whisky rather than the expected military artillery or decaying furniture. Scouts and archers avoided it altogether, their sideways glances often accompanied with a sigh of half-envy, half-exasperation. The day was warm and bright, yet the wind offered a chill that was inevitable so high up in the air.

“Is Skyhold garden not to your liking?” she asked him before they sat, slightly sarcastic in a way she knew he would appreciate, briefly shaken from her melancholy by the crisp air.

“Ah, nothing can beat this view. That, and everywhere else that's quiet in Skyhold is either creepy or smells weird,” he said, stepping forward, looking out towards the massive mountains gracing the skyline. “The lack of visiting dignitaries doesn't hurt either.”

“Yes,” she replied, hugging herself as she sat in one of the wooden chairs, still uncomfortable with the temperature of the Frostbacks. “I cannot argue one bit against that.”

Varric sat down beside her, shaking his head, a grin on his face. “For someone who hates people, Inquisitor, you sure chose a job that has a lot of them.”

“I don't hate people, Varric. Do I look like I hate people?”

“Often, yes. Or maybe I'm just mistaking that with your 'you're all annoying and loud' face.”

Nissa scrunched her nose. “But they often _are_ annoying and loud.”

He gave a quiet laugh. “I can't argue with you there, Lavellan.”

“That does not mean I _hate_ them. I sometimes just prefer animals, and. . . trees,” she shook her head, knowing that her words did not mean to Varric what they did to her. “I am aware of them, and accept their inevitable presence, but they exhaust me and-”

“Saying _that_ would probably wound them more than anything else, honestly.”

Varric moved to pour them both a drink from the bottle on the table. She took the cup he offered, yet eyed the brown liquid with a hesitance bordering on suspicion all the same; she could hardly tolerate wine, let alone this. Josephine had told her it was polite to accept drinks from those she could trust, even if it disgusted her. It was simply what one does.

“Lady Lavellan,” the Ambassador had said, hesitant and charming as ever, while Haven still stood and her mark was fresh. “Do you wish for me to teach you how to befriend our followers? Forgive my rudeness, but you are so often alone and I worry that-”

“I have friends, Josephine. You are among them,” Nissa had replied, confused.

With a warmth she considered those she had grown fond of in that short time: the Iron Bull, who filled her with wonder and amusement and seemed to like her immediately; Solas, whose ancient words left her enthralled; Scout Lace Harding, who chatted without reserve, as enthused about plants and woodworking as Nissa herself was; Varric, with his smart tongue and infinite tales; and Cassandra, whom she liked most of all, magnificent and lovely despite her obvious hesitance towards this sudden elven mage girl.

She remembered giving Josephine a small smile, feeling happier than she had in many days. “But sometimes it is best to be alone.”

Nissa chewed at the inside of her lip with an agitated restlessness, staring out at the cold, barren mountains. Was she, as she had thought before, _good_? Or was she corrupt; a selfish, curious girl who was fighting a war because convenience and coincidence both had decided she must? She had once thought the path to peace something simple -only not yet achieved because of a few sad, dishonest souls- that she could hope to guide into the human's chaotic world, yet as people questioned and despised her actions and words and very existence, she wondered if, perhaps, she had herself fooled, and was as wicked as the rest of them, acting only from a deep, unquestioned self-interest that these men saw and noted. Such ideas -the ignorance of her own potential evil- brought to her a great shame, and her once firm confidence wavered. If she was less than what she thought she was, how could she trust in herself to make decisions that would shake the world? A man must feel the consequences of his actions, yes, but what of hers? Were they an illusion, acting to deceive herself and others to what she truly was: a girl who was doing what she should not, like some eager child?

She brought her knees to her chin and sighed. “This. . . this is not for me, Varric.”

“Should have said something _before_ I poured,” he said, scratching his chin.

“No, not that- well, yes, that too, but _this._ Being Inquisitor. I liked it well enough at first, I suppose, but now. . . I cannot help but see that I am entirely _wrong_ for it, and it's no slight to myself, simply the truth. Surely so much more could be done with someone who-”

“Someone who _doesn't_ have the one thing that pissed off Corypheus? No, I think you're stuck with this, Inquisitor. Hell, the world doesn't _care_ if you like it or not. Just ask Hawke and all of the other questionable heroes. Sure, it sucks, but maybe you'll save the world. I'd just... stop thinking about it 'til then.”

“I. . . yes.” She pinched the fingers on her marked hand, one by one. “The Grand Ball seems to have made me question what could have been rather that what is. That is not. . . that is not something I should do.”

Varric, despite himself, stole a long glimpse at the deep scars on Nissa's cheek while she gazed out at the slopes in front of them. He had an anxiousness about her well-being that reminded him of his first years with Merrill. She, like Nissa, was capable enough to handle it all alone, but all alone, he knew, sometimes became too much. It seemed to him that there was a vulnerability that came with their culture, with the very title of Dalish, that festered like an open wound when exposed to the human world. They were old souls, left with broken history and silent gods. He felt for them; sometimes more than for his own people, if you could call the dwarves of Orzammar such a thing. He saw how people would flinch when she would exclaim in an elvish tongue, or cringe when she thanked a foreign god, and he knew she saw it too. He could only hope that it wouldn't break her.

“Now, I'm not naming names," he began, kicking himself for not having a knack for sentimental dialogue, "but not many people have made this any easier.”

“They're under no obligation to treat me kindly. Their concerns, I suppose, are valid.”

Varric turned to her, half-expecting some sarcastic grin he knew he would never find. He shook his head with a chuckle. “Maker's breath, Lavellan. How you don't constantly lose your shit, I'll never know. No, ignore that, I probably just don't _want_ to know.”

Nissa gave him a half-smile, amused by his words.

“I have all of you. Surely that is enough. And, as you say, I suppose I have to save the world. I can’t go losing my mind, now.”

Varric smiled at the mountains facing him. The words reminded him of Hawke’s in their final year in Kirkwall; weary and unsure, but filled with a gentle sort of hope. The two were so different; what Nissa said in earnest, Hawke said in jest. He gazed out at the Frostbacks, wondering if Nissa would be betrayed as Hawke had been; if she would forgive as Hawke had done; if she would lose as Hawke had.

The Inquisitor at his side scrunched her face as she sipped her whisky, the corners of her pointed ears pink from the chilled air.

 _Why her?_ he wondered dryly. _Could destiny not find someone more deserving of sadness?_ _Will it ever?_

His thoughts were racing; hers, tired. The two sat and thought similar thoughts for different reasons until the sky grew dark and the Iron Bull's laughter from below roused them from their brooding.

**Author's Note:**

> Just felt a reaction was necessary from certain characters after completing this quest.


End file.
